


And the Band Played On

by bunniewabbit



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, The Young Veins
Genre: Canon, M/M, Post-Split
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-14
Updated: 2009-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:34:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunniewabbit/pseuds/bunniewabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There's a sense of unreality to Jon's life right now.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Band Played On

**Author's Note:**

> Post-split fic. When you mix my need for catharsis with a heaping tablespoon of wishful thinking, this is what you get.

 

"Jon."

Jon blinks at the sound of his name, the first time it's connected with his brain, though it's clear from the tone that it's not the first time Ryan said it. He shakes his head a little, shifting the contents around.

"Hm? Sorry. What?"

"That should have been a B7 there. In the second line of the chorus."

"Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out for a second, there." Ryan looks at him a moment longer, face carefully expressionless, and then goes back to strumming his guitar.

Jon breathes out, caresses the strings, familiar and comforting under his fingers, and follows along.

* * *

There's a sense of unreality to Jon's life right now, and he tries not to poke at the feeling too much, unsure of what he might find on the other side if he punctures it. He recognizes the feeling: the last time he had it was just after he joined Panic! at the Disco, replacing a founding band member who had drifted away and ultimately been let go, deemed the best thing for everyone involved. He remembers the constant disbelief that they'd picked _him_ , accepted him so easily and completely, and that _that_ was going to be his life, from then on.

Back then, he'd held reality at bay, refusing to let himself believe it all, sure that it could never last. Somewhere along the line, he began to barely notice anymore when Brendon draped himself around Jon, found that his good-natured verbal battles with Spencer had become second nature, realized that he'd actually written a couple of songs with Ryan. It was with no small sense of awe that he finally accepted that he was well and truly a part of this band.

They wrote an album together, all of them, and it was glorious and amazing, and even the rigors of touring couldn't make a dent in Jon's utter contentment.

And that's when he made the mistake of thinking that it would last forever.

* * *

"You can come, you know," Ryan tells him again, voice hopeful, and Jon knows, he does.

 

At first, when Jon came to stay with Ryan, he would go along, meet Ryan's friends, enjoy the parties that were new and different, full of people who were, too. He didn't admit to himself that he was also keeping an eye on Ryan until it became increasingly obvious that Ryan neither needed nor wanted a 'keeper.'

So, Jon took to staying behind, hanging out with Eric -- Ryan's housemate and the band's touring keyboardist for the last few years -- if he was around, maybe noodle around in Ryan's music studio. And if Ryan was hosting, Jon would put in an appearance and then disappear -- unnoticed, he was pretty sure -- up to the guest room (" _Your_ room," Ryan had told him, but Jon's having trouble thinking of anything as truly his, at the moment) for the duration.

Mostly, Jon liked it when Ryan stayed home, and they would write, or smoke up, or smoke up and write. Those were the times that felt most normal, when that sense of unreality would lift a bit, and Jon thought maybe he was inching slowly toward accepting how things had turned out. The music he and Ryan made together was a balm, a release, and if Jon was honest with himself, a way to stop thinking about anything else.

 

Ryan is still hovering in the doorway, looking at him, so Jon smiles and shakes his head. "Nah. I'm kinda tired. You go. Have fun." Ryan shrugs, and with a whisper of a smile back at Jon, is gone.

 

Later, much later, Jon is still up, bent over his guitar in the living room, when Ryan comes stumbling back through the door. He gives Jon a slightly unfocused but questioning look, and Jon responds with a tired smile. They exchange no words, and Jon waits until the house is quiet before he finally goes to bed himself.

* * *

Jon takes his sandwich outside, but loses interest halfway through, distracted by the way the sunlight filters through the leaves and scatters patterns across the grass.

He lies back on the sofa that Ryan and Eric have furnished their backyard with and thinks about cameras, lenses and filters. There's a dull thud as his phone hits the ground, a victim of too-loose pockets on jeans that used to be tighter on him. Stretching his arm out, he grabs blindly, surprised when his fingertips make contact without having to scrabble around in the dirt, first. He curls his fingers around the hard plastic and brings the phone up to hold in front of his face, swiping the dust off with his thumb.

 

"Call anytime. Operators are standing by," Brendon had joked the last time -- weeks ago, now, before they had decided to split up -- that Jon had hung out with him and Spencer on one of Brendon's surfing adventures, but his smile hadn't reached his eyes.

 _Srsly. Anytime._ came Brendon's text message shortly after Jon got back to Ryan's. Before Jon had even had a chance to put his phone away, it buzzed with one from Spencer: _That means call us, asshole._ And Jon had smiled.

 

Jon slides the phone back in his pocket and doesn't call.

* * *

Recording is good. It's deeply satisfying to hear the bits and pieces of what he and Ryan have been working on coming together, and Rob, their producer once again, is as encouraging as ever.

The work is intense enough that Jon almost doesn't think about how this, their music, is ultimately what pulled their band apart, how if he hadn't spent so much time writing with Ryan, or if he could have reconciled his taste with the sound that Brendon and Spencer were pushing for, or if if if, so many if's -- some too painful to let himself dwell on -- well, maybe there would still be a _band_ instead of two halves of a whole.

The music is good, though, and helps Jon push all that into a dark corner of his mind, to be pulled out and picked through on some day in the future when it all doesn't still feel so raw.

Several days in, it occurs to him that he's barely seen or talked to anyone outside of Ryan, Rob, Alex -- who is helping with the record -- and occasionally, Eric. Jon's okay with that, though; a smaller circle means fewer questions, explanations, or uncomfortable small talk.

He tries to call Cassie at least every other day, but sometimes they work late and he looks at the clock and thinks, _Too late in Chicago_ , and he sends her an apologetic text along with a _Miss you_ or a _< 3_, knowing that she will get it when she wakes up. She doesn't call him, not wanting to "interfere with his process," as she puts it, only half-jokingly. She's always given him a lot of leeway with regard to his bands, and part of why he loves her is that she's always there, but she doesn't push.

So, it's a surprise when he feels his phone vibrate while he's sitting behind the mixing board, watching Rob work. He tugs it from his pocket and has to stare at the screen for a moment before ducking quietly out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"Hey," he breathes into the phone, leaning against the wall and running fingers through his hair.

"You didn't call," answers Brendon's voice, not accusing, just a little small and tired-sounding. Jon tries to let the breath he was holding out quietly.

"I know, I. We... I'm sorry." Jon slouches against the wood paneling, shoulders curving forward, suddenly feeling as tired as Brendon sounds. "I don't--"

"Spencer and I are calling it quits for today," Brendon interrupts (he doesn't say from what, but Jon knows that they have to have been writing and recording demos, not to mention getting ready for the tour, and Jon feels a sudden stab of guilt and longing at the thought). "It's still pretty early, and Spencer and I were thinking, uh." There's a pause, and Jon tries and fails to think of something to fill it, settling for scratching at his beard, instead. "Do you want to come hang out with us for awhile?" Brendon lets out all in a rush, voice finishing high and pinched, and Jon can picture him curled into himself, probably chewing a fingernail, like he sometimes does when he's feeling anxious.

"Um. Yeah? Yeah," Jon manages, sliding down the wall until he sitting balled up on the floor. "I'd really. I'd really like that. Yeah. Thanks, Brendon."

"Yeah? Fucking awesome," Brendon says, more a sigh of relief than an exclamation.

"Wait, oh, shit. Hang on," Jon says, struggling to stand. "I have to check... Just, hang on." Up too fast, he's light headed for just a moment. Not waiting to see if Brendon responds, he mutes the phone and slips back into the control room, hovering over Rob until he looks up and pulls one side of his headphones off. "I need to, uh. Could I...?" Jon hooks a thumb toward the door. "Would it be all right if I left? If you don't need me," he adds quickly.

"Yeah, sure," Rob says affably. "Ryan wanted to lay down a few more vocals, but I don't see why you'd have to stick around for that."

"Cool, thanks. Um... let Ryan know I...?" Jon trails off, already backing toward the door.

"Sure thing. See you tomorrow." Rob smiles and Jon is out the door before he even has his headphones back in place.

"Brendon?" he says into the phone.

"Yeah?" Brendon replies in an odd tone, most likely going for casual but landing somewhere closer to nervous.

"I'm on my way."

* * *

Jon pulls into Brendon's driveway, turns off the engine and the lights. He pretends to fiddle with his phone and feels like a complete asshole for needing to sit and gather his courage before getting out of the car. He forces himself out and watches his feet shuffle up the driveway, climb the steps, and stand on Brendon's doormat. He takes a deep breath and holds it, rings the bell, and waits.

The door whooshes open about the same time Jon lets the air out of his lungs, and then he has trouble taking another breath because there is Spencer, gripping the edge of the door tightly, and Brendon is shouldering past him, his eyes big and dark, and neither of them are smiling.

"Um. Hey," Jon says, lifting his hand in an awkward half-wave. Before he can react or even think, Brendon has snatched his wrist out of the air and is tugging him across the threshold, pulling him into a full-body hug, burying his face in Jon's neck. Jon lets himself sag into it, feels his chest loosen up for the first time since Brendon called, maybe for the first time since they decided to split up. He inhales deeply, breathes in shampoo, beer, and the tang of Brendon's familiar sweat-smell.

He never wants to let go, but, then Brendon is pushing him away and into Spencer's waiting arms, and Jon remembers what it's like to feel dwarfed, dwarfed and _safe_ , and now it's his turn to bury his face in the soft spot below Spencer's shoulder, clinging tightly before making himself step away, because Spencer is not a big hugger. But Spencer still has a grip on Jon's upper arm like he's afraid Jon might wander off, and he makes a vague gesture at the living room and says, "Maybe we should...?"

They maneuver as a group over to the couch and Jon drops down in the center. Maybe it's just one of those sofas that tends to sag toward the middle, but Jon finds himself sandwiched there, Spencer pressed close up against one side, Brendon on the other and clinging to him like a limpet, arms and legs slung over and around Jon, anchoring him there.

"Jon Walker," Brendon finally sighs, and Jon's breath catches, he's suddenly unable to breathe, because he didn't think he be allowed this, anymore, thought he'd lost it forever, and he's only just realizing -- is maybe only just admitting to himself -- how much he fucking _missed_ it.

Brendon pokes him in the ribs and Jon gives a startled gasp and laughs, and it's like a spell has broken, or, possibly, like one has snapped back into place.

"Want a beer?" Spencer grins at him, and Jon nods, grinning back. Spencer gets up and Jon turns to poke back at Brendon, who obliges him by writhing around before collapsing in giggles with his head in Jon's lap. He smiles down at Brendon and cards his fingers through Brendon's hair, which is longer since the last time Jon saw him. He might have a few more freckles than he did then, too.

"You're a dick, you know that?" Brendon says, but his eyes are dancing.

"Yeah, I know," Jon admits, because he _does_. "A dick and a coward."

"Can't argue with that," Spencer says as he flops back down on the sofa, pressing a beer into Jon's hand.

 

Brendon starts a DVD -- something with a lot of explosions -- but they don't really watch it, opting instead to talk and catch up. It feels remarkably normal, except for how there are some things that they pointedly don't talk about: music, for one thing; Pete, for another. Jon knows Pete has been promoting the new Spencer-and-Brendon version of Panic! at the Disco, but Jon hasn't spoken to Pete since he and Ryan left the band, and he's pretty sure that Ryan hasn't, either. _Coward_ , he tells himself again, but he puts it aside to think about another day.

They do talk about Panic's upcoming tour, at Jon's prompting; the logistics, the frustrations, and the excitement described in animated detail by Brendon and commented on with much eye-rolling and sarcasm by Spencer. Jon feels that pang again, but he tries to push that away, too.

He's not successful, though, because when there's a lull in the conversation, Jon flicks his gaze between Spencer and Brendon, suddenly feeling awkward again. Awkward and _guilty_. He sucks in a breath, but it feels more like a sob, caught behind the knot in his chest.

"Jon?" Brendon is looking at him, frowning. "Hey," Spencer says, squeezing Jon's forearm, and Jon doesn't want to talk about this, he really, really doesn't. He tries to laugh, but it comes out shaky. He rubs a hand over his face, scrubs it through his hair.

"Hey, it's okay. We're good, right?" Brendon is murmuring earnestly, right there in Jon's face. "We're all going to be fine. It's okay."

Jon can't stand it anymore, can't listen to that when he knows... "Brendon, I destroyed our band," he says hopelessly, and watches Brendon's face go blank with shock.

"Jon, you didn't destroy our band," Spencer says softly. "You _saved_ our band."

"Without you, there wouldn't even _be_ a band," Brendon adds, looking angry, now.

"But, I. If I hadn't influenced... If me and Ryan hadn't..." It's useless; he knows the fault lies with him, but he can't find a way to explain it in a way that makes sense.

"That's bullshit," Brendon exclaims, and he's up and pacing back and forth in front of the sofa. "If it's anyone's fault, it's mine and Ryan's. But even that's... Jon," he says, stopping and squatting at Jon's feet, looking up at him. "Things change. People change, tastes change... It isn't anyone's fault."

Jon isn't convinced, but he thinks maybe he can let it go for now. He's concentrating on evening out his breathing when Spencer's hand wraps around his arm again, warm and steady. "Jon. Believe me when I say that the last two years were the best and the most fun that this band has ever had." Jon looks up and Spencer's eyes are close, clear and blue, and deadly serious. " _That_ is the only thing that I'm prepared to blame on you."

"Too fucking right," Brendon adds, and throws himself down next to Jon again. "Don't ever believe otherwise, Jon Walker. Or, I might have to go all... _ninja turtle_ on your ass," he threatens, throwing in some dorky hand gestures. Jon has to smile at that; he can't help himself, and before he knows it, he's snickering and Brendon is pretending to be affronted, narrowing his eyes at Jon. "Or, I can always call Zack to take you out."

"Oh, okay. Oh, god," Jon laughs, holding up his hands in surrender as he imagines Panic's burly security guard out to do vengeance on him. "That's some serious business, there. Okay." Brendon settles back in against his side with a _huff_ , and Jon smiles and drapes an arm around his shoulders.

They sit in comfortable silence until Jon feels the vibration in his pocket. He fishes his cellphone out and opens Ryan's text: _Where r u?_ He bites his lip, glancing quickly at Brendon and then Spencer, and they're both watching him.

Jon thumbs in the reply: _Bdens house._ He waits, and slips the phone back in his pocket when there is no reply.

They're all quiet for a moment, carefully not looking at each other, and Jon takes a long drink from his beer bottle. Startling when his phone buzzes again, he pulls it back out and freezes when he sees what appears on the screen: _Can i come?_

Silently, he shows the message to Spencer, who quietly hisses in a breath, and then to Brendon, whose eyes get really big and then snap over to Spencer.

On some unspoken signal, they both dig out their own phones and start punching in letters; Spencer very calmly, and Brendon with barely stifled laughter. Still slightly stunned, Jon tentatively types in his own, _Yes_ , and then waits to see what Spencer and Brendon come up with.

Brendon's lower lip is caught between his teeth when he holds up his own phone. It says: _Fuck yeah._ Spencer shows them his: _Get your ass over here_ , and then lifts an eyebrow and says, "One. Two. Three," and they all push 'send' together.

* * *

Jon's stomach hasn't stopped flip-flopping since they text-bombed Ryan, but the beer has helped. They all sort of giggled in wonder, at first, settling into quiet talking while they drank and waited. They gradually sprawled across the couch, ending up a bit looser and more spread out than they were at first, but still touching wherever it's convenient to do so.

When the doorbell eventually rings, Jon's belly does a serious dip, like the vertigo of standing too close to the railing of a really high scenic viewpoint. They all exchange glances, but no one gets up. There was a time when Ryan wouldn't have rung the bell, would have just let himself in, locked or not. This isn't then, though, and they all know it, but no one seems to want to have to be the one to open the door.

Finally, Spencer hollers, "It's open!" and Jon concentrates on looking as relaxed and casual as possible. There is a soft gust of night air, and then Ryan is standing in front of them, staring down.

"Ryan," Spencer says with a nod, Jon and Brendon chorusing "Hey," after him. Ryan just keeps staring, raking his eyes over each of them before he finally says, "Somebody shove over."

Brendon points behind Ryan. "There's a chair," he says helpfully, and then ruins the effect by smirking.

Ryan's reaction is to throw himself on top of them ("Fucking _ow!_ " "Elbows, Ross!"), wedging himself between Spencer and Jon, with his legs over Jon's lap and his feet in Brendon's lap ("You could at least take off your fucking boots, first.").

"Nice," Spencer drawls. "But, now you have to get your own beer."

"Fuck you," Ryan says, but there's no bite to it, and Brendon snickers.

For a couple of minutes, no one moves; they're not comfortable enough to really relax, but Jon gets the feeling that they're silently testing possibilities, weighing options. He's aware of everyone's breathing, feels the shift and heat of muscle and skin where they're all pushed tightly together. He waits, and breathes with them.

"Fine," Ryan finally says and pushes himself up, sparking another series of loud complaints, and stalks off toward the kitchen.

"Beer's in the fridge," Brendon calls after him. "Help yourself, make yourself at home, yada, yada," he adds, gesturing vaguely with his free hand, and then he turns and gives Jon an incandescent grin. And, oh, Jon has missed that, too. He reaches over and curls his fingers around Brendon's hand, gives it a slight squeeze, and Brendon leans into him with a contented sigh.

 

When Ryan returns, they all move over to make room for him this time, but Brendon pouts until Ryan rolls his eyes and goes to sit on the end next to him, squeezing Brendon over into the middle, beside Jon.

When they're all settled, having grumbled and shifted and adjusted until they're all comfortable and fit together just so, Brendon picks up the remote and switches DVD's, landing on something Disney this time. He mutes the sound, and no one even pretends to watch the movie.

Jon listens to the familiar cadence of voices, flexes his arms and legs slightly just to feel the press of them against other arms and legs, and lets himself hope that there really might be some things in life that can last.

 

* * * * * * *

  



End file.
